


someday you will die

by sanzv



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Fluff-Adjacent, angst-adjacent, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27500353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzv/pseuds/sanzv
Summary: It’s been eight years, a hundred months, three thousand days since she’d left. No matter how often you calculate the time, it feels like too little, like too much, like something you don’t really have a right to whine over. In fairness, she had done it so softly and so sweetly. The kindest thing she’d done for you since the knife twisting in your abdomen.orVillanelle tries to work through her Eve-Polastri-left-me-because-apparently-we're-unhealthy-together-who-would've-thought feelings.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 57
Kudos: 148





	1. don’t want to set the world on fire

**Author's Note:**

> alright, dw; this isn't as sad as it seems.  
> title from: I Will Follow You Into The Dark - Death Cab for Cutie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from: I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire - The Ink Spots

You are not a religious person. Or a very kind person. And you didn’t go to an expensive college and oh, your job is definitely not thanksgiving-table-pass-me-the-green-beans-talk. 

So, it’s not surprising when you realise that she is dating someone now and she has taken them to meet her mother. She never even spoke about her mother to you. You had asked, of course, but mostly she had said ‘yeah, she raised me, but I’m clearly not, like, incredibly well-adjusted so I can’t even really compliment her on that. I kinda want to become closer with her, I guess.’ In response, you’d told her that your mother was mean and also probably most of the reason that you were the way that you are now. She’d kind of chuckled at that, said ‘don’t be a fucking cliché’ and you’d both smiled at each other in the way that only her casual cruelty allowed. 

It’s been eight years, a hundred months, three thousand days since she’d left. No matter how often you calculate the time, it feels like too little, like too much, like something you don’t really have a right to whine over. In fairness, she had done it so softly and so sweetly. The kindest thing she’d done for you since the knife twisting in your abdomen. It had definitely had all the motions of the ending of a probably-Oscar-winning-film where the lead actress is someone who is young and hot and white (she is only one of those three things). The kiss on your forehead, the squeeze of your hand, the way you’d hugged her, like you were giving her permission to leave you and your wrecked heart behind.  
“Will you be okay?”  
“I will be splendid, overjoyed, ecstatic,” you had said in a British accent, betraying no emotion.  
She’d sighed, “I baked, like, a brownie for you last night, you’ll find it in the microwave.”  
That had made you grin, wide and splintered around the edges and sort of painful, “I am going to eat the brownie over weeks, months, however long it takes you to come back.”  
“Oh yeah, save half for me then.”  
“Shan’t.”  
There had been a shared laugh, a feeling that things that go horribly can go well for just long enough that you could both pretend.  
“Villan - Oksana.”  
“Eve.” (IloveyouIloveyouIloveyousomuchfuckyouIloveyou.)  
There had been something so fucking intense in her eyes then, like she was saying something in her head but you couldn’t hear it, so you’d turned to look at the ground.  
“I am always, no – wait, look at me,” soft hand turning your face towards her, “I am always going to have love for you.”  
And it had been so easy to pretend like that was the same thing as ‘I am always going to love you.’

When you are trying to deal with how you feel about this new person that she is probably in love with, you calculate more things. You were together for four years and sixteen days. Or is it fifteen days because you technically ‘got together’ the day after that weird and beautiful night on the bridge. Yeah okay, fifteen days, your first proper kiss had probably been after midnight anyway.  
You calculate the fact that your first job under Carolyn had a salary of about zero pounds. And the first time that you went a day without thinking of Eve was more than a year after she left. And the first time the two of you cooked together was after three days of being on the run. It’d been Indian food because she’d mentioned that she thought Indian takeout was boring after years of being with Moustache. You’d wanted to show her this incredible South Indian pork dish you’d found the recipe of, proving to yourself that you’d be enough to change her mind.  
God, it’s almost enough to make you wince when you remember how excited you’d been. She’d cut vegetables, somewhat wonky, too focused on the thickness of the slices. You’d laughed, added podi powder and ghee and shared fun Hindi words that you knew she would like. 

The two of you would kiss all the time after that. Pressed to the base of her neck and into her beautiful curly hair and in some of the places that she only allowed you to go. She’d softly leave them on the curve of your elbow when you were reading to her, on your open mouth when you said something particularly intelligent in that ugly Bitter Pill building. Even after she said things like ‘would you love me if I put a bullet in your brain’ or ‘give me twenty minutes where it doesn’t feel like you are living for me.’ 

So, after she left you, it had felt … nice to not kiss for a while. It was a small thing that so many people lived without, it was fine, nice, whatever. You fucked men and women who made you laugh. You thought about her rarely, made friends and mentioned ‘this older beautiful Asian lady, I thought she was the one for me’ with a shrug. There were four friends and you chose to put your faith and love in them. Two men who were married and completely unlike each other, a funny airline pilot who made shrimp dumplings in her spare time and a blonde lovely girl who you’d have made fun of if you’d met her earlier. You hadn’t had sex with any of them, hadn’t wanted to, which was beyond strange for you. You went for movies and looked at old pictures of your own favourite murders together, although your friends thought that you just found these pictures on reddit or the frightening side of twitter. 

It was through your blonde friend, the one who looked a bit like you but was shorter and kinder and cried more often, that you met one of Eve’s old friends.  
“I’m Elen – oh fuck off, what is she doing here.”  
Your blonde friend had tugged on your garish headband with antlers regretfully.  
“This is Oksana. Do you know her or something, Elena?”  
Elena was pretty and a had two beautiful sons, one of whom was named Kenneth. Hah.  
Eve had, of course, told you about her but you never thought you’d actually meet. It also feels like the universe is saying something larger yadda yadda because Eve had wanted a son named Kenny (although William would also do, she’d said.) Nevertheless, the two of you spent the rest of the Christmas party talking, and eventually, laughing together.

So now Elena is another friend of yours, you babysit Kenneth with your gay friends who are trying to decide if they should adopt. Elena tells you about how Eve just never bothered to continue the friendship and you grinned.  
“Yes, she calls herself an emotional goldfish. Can’t remember people unless she is around them.”  
“That didn’t happen with you though, babe.”  
Half-shrug, twist-of-the-mouth, bitter-smile. “Eh, no, it happened more like an emotional … shark or something with me.”  
It is Elena who tells you about Eve’s new partner. A woman (oh, good for her, at least you caused her to overcome the entire internalized biphobia thing she had.) The woman is a professor, same age as Eve, looks similar to someone you once went on four dates with after Eve left you. The woman is a professor of mathematics, and that’s basically all Elena knows. You find out that the woman’s name is Diana, but that’s all the spying and stalking you allow. You are, after all, tremendously well-adjusted now. The goosebumps every time you hold a knife and the dry-heaving in the toilet when you miss her are just quirks now. Things are fine. This is fine. You are fine.

It happens one evening when you are walking back from the grocery store with your friends who have gone ahead and adopted a daughter. The three of you are discussing Schitt’s Creek and Michael Schur when an old Asian woman walks near you. She is not Eve but she is Eve-adjacent. Knows you well enough to gasp “Oksana!” apparently. It is Eve’s mother and she invites you to come to her rented London apartment immediately. You grimace apologetically at your friends and walk back with her while she explains that Eve had showed photographs of you and called you her ‘future-wife’. She explains that Diana is Eve’s best friend and teaches the six-year-old son that Eve has. She explains that the adoption process is so shit in England for unmarried women, especially ones who have been divorced from lovely-Polish-husbands.

Eve’s mother likes you so much, even though you aren’t religious. She thinks you’re kind and she likes the fact that you’re smart but not ‘so posh that you won’t love my Eve.’ She even likes the fact that you had a job that Eve was at least interested in, even though she doesn’t know what it is.  
She gives you an address. It is only eleven in the morning so you take a cab to the address. Fluff your hair up in the back-seat and smile too hard at the driver.

You hold up a hand to knock on the wooden door of Eve’s house. You remember the time she told you that she needed to be by herself to figure out how to be with you. How you wanted to say the same thing but didn’t want her to leave so you made her a fantastic Shepherd’s Pie to convince her to stay.  
Your hand knocks the door thrice, the same hand that has murdered and has mindlessly traced circles on the skin of the woman you love.  
And it feels a lot like hope when the door opens almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm new to the killing eve situation as well as the fanfiction situation, hope you liked this thing that I did instead of writing some Very Important Essays for uni. leave a comment if you loved it, liked it, felt ambivalent towards it or hated it, all reactions are extremely valid.
> 
> I wanted to write a soft multi-chapter au à la fixy or imunbreakabledude or lightfighter. instead, I read some spayne and liraels :)  
> oh also, I really just want to see Villanelle speak hindi (because I speak hindi and I love Villanelle) but I'm so frightened that she'll butcher the accent so just imagine that this version of Villanelle had help from a dialect coach and has a top tier accent. 
> 
> anyway, thanks for getting so far. let me know if you want a sequel / update :)


	2. please don’t go, i’ll eat you whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from: Breezeblocks - alt-j

Here you are. Here she is.  
You're baking a cake for your son’s birthday tomorrow. You probably have flour lightly dusted across your cheekbone. She’s more beautiful than she’s ever been.  
You have no idea what to do now, so you remind yourself of these undisputable facts. Her hair is darker now, like syrupy thick honey. She is smiling a little bit, a crooked practiced smirk.  
“Hi, Eve,” voice throaty and low and just-like-it-was-on-that-goddamn-bus-all-those-years-ago.  
This time you don’t blindly swing punches, hoping at least one would hit her somewhere and leave a mottled purpling bruise. This time you sigh and ignore the fact that your palm is sweating.  
“Have you come to give me half of that brownie?”  
Her smile is growing too wide for her face. And there’s probably golden light leaking out of your crinkled eyes and fluttering heart. She shoulders past you, takes her jacket off, “What are you baking in here. I will help.” 

You decided to leave her after reading a hot pink magazine aimed towards teenage girls who needed to ‘clear that skin up, darling’ and ‘decide if he really is your soulmate’. You’d picked it up at a bodega when you both visited New York City in October all those years ago. There had been an article in there, ‘Should You Leave Your Boyfriend the Summer Before College?!’ You’d realised that she just loved you too much to ever really be okay by herself. She couldn’t fix your antsiness and your guilt and your thoughtful cruelty so the only logical option had been to bake her a fudgy brownie and watch the way she cried when you told her you’d always have love for her. 

“So, you, uh, have a son now?”  
“William. He’s six. Really fucking great kid.”  
She whisks the batter a little slower now. “Okay, why do you have a son?”  
You narrow your eyes, and she backtracks immediately.  
“No, it is good to have sons. I didn’t mean you should not have him. I just – it just seems like you would be a shit mother.” She winces so visibly that you decide to cut her some slack.  
“I mean, like, yeah, I guess I just wanted to raise something with all my free time. And children are famously hard to fuck up, right?” She notices that you have evaded the question but she smiles anyway.  
The truth is you had never wanted a child with Niko. It would’ve just served as another way for him to make you feel guilty about things. And you really genuinely didn’t feel like ‘less of a woman’ as Niko’s Polish cousin had once put it. 

But then Villanelle had taken you for a picnic in a park near your shared apartment in Paris and you had remembered to buy a block of Gruyere because ‘that’s the only cheese worth having with grapes; Eve, please, take me seriously, I am never touching a slice of your ugly American cheese’.  
And suddenly, it had felt like you might also be capable of kindness and an easier sort of love than you’d had for good-and-honest-and-lovely-and-absolutely-unbearable Niko.  
It didn’t hurt that after you pulled the wrapped cheese out of your bag, Villanelle had looked at you with an uncomfortable amount of reverence and tackled you onto the picnic blanket with her mouth messily pressing onto your exposed skin. 

And now here you are. Here she is.  
She asks you about your friend, Diana. Traces of worry that you’ve moved on beneath all her posturing and quick smirks. She asks about Caroline, who is still very much alive and is as frustrating to get answers out of as ever. You tell her that you work as an outside consultant for MI6. She tells you that she cut a deal with Caroline’s boss and she also works as an outside consultant for MI6.  
The two of you finish baking the cake. She wipes the flour from your cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. You fidget with your sweater, pushed up to your elbow. She smiles at the gesture. You smile back.  
And suddenly she is kissing you and it is like oxygen and like blood and like the relief you feel when you throw something heavy and weighted into a still lake.  
When she pulls away, her voice is rough and she looks disoriented, “I wanted to say something earlier, I did not know if it was allowed.”  
“Anything’s allowed.” You shift your features, make sure it doesn’t look like hope, make sure it isn’t clear how much you want to tell her you love her back.  
“Okay, I – ”  
“I love you too.” It’s out before you can stop it, a bullet lodging itself into her throat. She swallows hard. Pauses. Then smiles again.  
“No, I was going to tell you that I think you are very sexy as an older woman.”  
“Oh, fuck off.”  
“No, no, I’ll take it. Love, huh?”  
“Love, yeah.”

In the evening, the two of you sit in your car and she enthusiastically shuffles a playlist that her friend made for her. The two of you talk and laugh and look out of the window when it all feels too surreal.  
You park outside Will’s friend’s house and she looks so nervous that it seems like it would be a crime to not kiss her. So, you do, and the two of you get out and knock on the door.  
You wonder if you should be embarrassed that she’s here picking your son up with you. You wonder if you should be scared when the three of you walk around a park and Will grabs her hand with his small sticky one, runs with her to a swing set. You wonder if you should be angry when she arrives at your house with four suitcases full of her clothes within a month, proudly proclaiming that “You look like you need help and anyway, Will already likes me more than you.”  
But you can’t really find it in you to feel anything but contentment at knowing that finally, finally, finally, the two of you are home. 

A year later, you propose.  
Her friends had helped you plan it and she cried so much that it made you cry a bit. The two of you put Will to sleep at night and talk about the recent triple homicide in Madrid over the table. She makes fun of you for wearing glasses. You throw a pencil at her and she gasps, “Eve, that could have taken my eye out.”  
“You’d look hideous with only one eye. I’d have to divorce you.”  
“You are so mean to me. I will divorce you first. And then murder you, and chop you up and pour you into a flask that I will throw into a toilet in a different part of London.”  
“Don’t look so smug, it’d be incredibly easy to guess who killed the ex-assassin’s wife.”  
“Ex-assassin’s ex-wife. I will have divorced you by then.”  
You laugh and intertwine your fingers with hers. There is something painful and horrible and perfect about how well the two of you fit together. About how your murderous hand feels against hers.  
And finally, here you are. And here she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the lovely comments on the last chapter <3 it made me forget that straight people watch killing eve too, (the other day, my ex-boyfriend told me about how excited he is for the entire Twelve plotline to be explored in s4 and I was so taken aback at the fact that people watch this for anything but Villaneve. (for legal reasons, that is a joke, I love plot and wish s3 was done better :)))
> 
> anyway, yeah, this is most likely the last chapter unless I am struck with inspiration and decide to write one from William's perspective, let me know if you'd like that.  
> And finally, on a personal note, if anyone has a very solid understanding of Custom Object Detection in TensorFlow and is willing to debug my code for me, come text me on twitter: @sverm2. I understand that this is the worst place to ask something like this but I am NOT in the mood to be patronized by tech-y boys on reddit.


End file.
